


Awakening

by Haunted_Moonlight, Vilteofhope



Series: Rain [5]
Category: Antisepticeye - Fandom, Darkiplier - Fandom, Video Blogging RPF, jacksepticeye, markiplier - Fandom, youtube - Fandom
Genre: Also contains some triggers later so read at your own risk, Basically an origin story for the demons we know and love, But everything is awful, But this one should be more or less safe enough at least, Dark is a jackass, Darkiplier - Freeform, Does not follow the WKM cannon, Historic fiction, Indentured Servitude, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Some of this history might be a bit controversial so beware, Yes it is Danti, antisepticeye
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-05 05:01:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16804123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haunted_Moonlight/pseuds/Haunted_Moonlight, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vilteofhope/pseuds/Vilteofhope
Summary: Halloween was the point that horrified everyone, when a demon took control of a popular youtuber and forced him to slit his own throat. Valentine's Day had everyone shook at the emergence of a whole new entity that was just as much on par. But instead of focusing in on the horrors of now, it's time to go back. Back to see who these demons once were, back to see their stories. Not all things are quite as they seem. Part two of the Rain series.





	Awakening

_** August, 1914 - Dublin, Ireland ** _

Everything seemed to move around him in a dizzying whirlwind.

He only caught things in half-delirious snatches, vision blurry, mind disconnected from what was going on. When he wasn’t so light-headed that he could’ve sworn he was floating, he was in pain. Pain that hammered through his head, that nauseated his stomach, that clawed and scratched within his throat, that radiated and seared throughout his injured leg. At one point he could’ve sworn he was screaming...but maybe it was just a dream. Or a nightmare. Or something.

He really couldn’t tell anymore.

He really couldn’t be much bothered to care.

When his eyes finally opened and stayed open, he was staring up at a ceiling. The room was dark and silent aside from the sound of his own hoarse and labored breathing, underneath him was the odd, alien sensation of cushioning and springs. Distantly he noticed there was a blanket over him, there also seemed to be a lukewarm damp softness on his forehead. He wasn’t sure just how long he stayed like that, green eyes just staring blankly up into nothingness as his mind spaced and remained empty. His left arm was somewhat uncomfortable and he tried to shift it. In disoriented but slowly-creeping alarm he realized that he couldn’t and looked down as best he could without lifting his head. A thin needle of relief pierced the confusion when he realized it was just pinned between his body and the back of a sofa-

...A sofa.

In what universe would he ever find himself on such a comfort, especially one that was _indoors_ and not _garbage?_

His mind slowly started to regain the ability to form questions again, but his body still felt almost completely drained of energy, his limbs heavy. There was no way he’d be able to search for answers; he was positive he wouldn’t even be able to push himself up into a sitting position at this rate. So instead he laid there, half-lidded, vaguely trying to put two and two together and figure out what the hell happened and where the hell he actually was.

He was outside on a stoop, close to his usual spot.

It was raining out.

There was...there was a man…

A man who said he was _worthless._

The memory brought back a wave of anger, but it was quickly followed up by a wave of nausea that came rolling in on the following tide of humiliation and self-loathing. His cheeks and ears burned as he remembered, as the memory just seemed to go into a downward spiral of just getting worse and worse.

Him and his fuckin’ pride.

Him and his fuckin’ pride and his main weakness. That need for _attention_ , that craving, that addiction. It had gotten him into trouble in the past on multiple occasions, but never had he lifted his head to hold it high only to have it all cave in and all fizzle down to _desperate begging with strangers._

He blamed the infection and the fever.

He blamed the stranger with his dissecting red-eyed stare.

The stare that still burned into his memory, to the point he could still see them peering down at him-

...Wait. There actually _were_ eyes peering down at him.

His eyes suddenly widened as he noticed with a jolt the man standing next to the sofa, staring down at him with that judging look that made his short-statured self feel like it was twenty times smaller. His breath caught for just a moment and his body froze, but it was suddenly broken by a spasming cough that came from a congested, rattling chest. _How fucking long_ had this guy been standing there?! Why didn’t he notice him before?!

...Well. Pulling his eyes from the ceiling directly above him probably would’ve helped.

“You’re awake,” the man finally stated, making no real move to help him as he merely stood by and watched. It wasn’t a question, just a remark on the obvious. When the Irishman finally caught his breath, his raspy, labored, stilted breath, the man decided to continue. “You’ve been out for three days straight. The doctor almost took your leg. Almost.”

A shot of panic surged through the Irishman as his eyes flickered back down his body, his hand instinctively going for the blanket to yank it back. Instead, his wrist was caught in the firm grip of the reddish-eyed man, preventing the action. “It’s still there. ‘Almost’ is a phrase I’d think you’d be more familiar with.”

The Irishman swallowed but the action about made him cringe, the sensation of swallowing razor blades cutting through his throat. The man stared at him for a time longer, silent, before finally dropping his wrist back beside him and moving away from the side of the sofa, away from his line of sight.

The Irishman opened his mouth, made the weakest of raspy noises, but he couldn’t find anything coherent willing to pass his lips. So instead he lay there in frozen silence, listening to a door a ways behind the sofa open and close.

The moment he heard the door close, he tugged the blanket back, affirming with energy-draining relief that the leg was indeed still there. The pants certainly weren’t recognizable (come to think of it, _nothing_ he was wearing was recognizable to him and certainly too big) but overall he could care less about that at the moment. His leg was still there and he could just slightly move his calloused and scarred-up bare foot and toes if he was careful enough. Because of the pants, he couldn’t see the injury, but maybe that was for the best.

His head lolled to the side to stare at the darkened window a ways across from the sofa, eyelids feeling heavy and beginning to slide shut again. Outside he could vaguely hear the standard buzz of Dublin, but his mind didn’t bother to make much sense of it. His head felt stuffed with cotton, his body felt so heavy, oh, the red-eyed man was probably gonna be pissed upon returning to his unconscious ass but he was too exhausted to even care…

* * *

When he returned to consciousness, he wasn’t sure how long he’d been out again. It could’ve been minutes, or if the other man was anything to go by, it could’ve just as easily been days. Not much seemed to have changed though, and when his eyes slid open again, they met the red orbs of the man who had-at this point-pulled up a chair to stare down at him. The room seemed to spin a little bit, and green eyes slid shut again for a couple of moments in an attempt to get the world to stabilize again.

In the silence of the room he could hear something being poured, bringing to his attention the parched feeling in his mouth.

“We’re going to play a little game of give and take,” the man said. “You’ve gotten enough as it is without earning it for yourself.”

The Irishman’s eyes slid open again and he couldn’t help a slight wince from coming to his features. In part because he couldn’t exactly argue, but also in part because the words and dim light weren’t completely helping the dull pain in his head. Slowly, ever-so-slowly he managed the tiniest head loll to the stare at the American with a weariness that threatened to drag him down into darkness all over again. Sitting next to the man on a pulled-up coffee table was a small silver tea set.

“Let’s start with something a bit easy. How about your name?”

The Irishman opened his mouth as he tried to speak normally and all that came out was a choking cough. After a couple minutes of choked, wracked hacking, he gasped for breath as best he could and attempted to stabilize his breathing. The other man said nothing-neither in concern or criticism-instead waiting patiently for the other to actually speak. By the time the Irishman felt the choking die down, he decided to try and go with whispering as best he could.

“Anti.”

The man’s eyes narrowed just a bit. “Anti isn’t a _name-_ ”

“It’s...mine…” Anti managed, struggling to keep some of the desperation from his voice. “Please. It’s mine.”

“Why am I having trouble believing you?” The man tugged the tea set further from him, as if the Irishman would be able to reach over and grab anything anyway.

Anti winced as his head lolled to stare back up at the ceiling again. Silence permeated the room for another half minute or so before he finally reluctantly confessed, “...Fine. It’s Ashanti.”

“Ashanti?” This time the man’s voice sounded vaguely amused if anything, and when he looked back he could see that now an eyebrow was raised. “That sounds effeminate. And vaguely foreign.”

“It is…” Anti mumbled. “Named after an African kingdom my father...helped the Empire to defeat-” The string of words drew another attack from his throat, but now a saucer was being pushed carefully into his hand.

“And where are your parents now?” Most of the amusement was gone as quickly as it’d come, although a glimmer of curiosity remained in the man’s eyes.

“Ma’s dead…”

“And your father?”

Anti managed the tiniest of shrugs as he brought the teacup to his lips as carefully as he could manage with a still-shaky hand. “Could care less about a prostitute’s son.”

The man watched as Anti struggled just enough to lean upward and slowly sip his tea, too attached to the warmth and clarity it brought to his chest to care much about the burn it left on his tongue. Thankfully there wasn’t too much burn at this point, as it’d cooled somewhat; vaguely he wondered how long ago the pot was made. The man’s features generally lacked sympathy, but they were however thoughtful and calculating.

“So you have no one?”

Anti paused for a moment, letting the cup settle back down on the saucer as his eyes slid back over to him. There was no vocalized response, but the eyes told everything the man needed to know. The American shifted a bit, eyes drifting down toward Anti’s lower area.

“The doctor said you had a bullet in your leg. Care to explain that?”

Anti drew in a shuddering breath. “Bachelor’s Walk,” he replied in a weak whisper.

The American’s eyebrows lifted. “Come again?” But then it clicked. “You’re a nationalist?”

Anti stared for a moment before shaking his head just a tiny fraction. “...No. Civilian.” Coughing hard as the stirring in his throat seemed to irritate it again, he managed between coughs, “Most hurt...and dead...were civilians-”

The American reached out to steady the cup to ensure the hot liquid didn’t spill across the blanket. Even more intense coughing caused the American to take the saucer entirely and lift it above the Irishman, waiting for it to die down. As the hacking finally quieted somewhat, the American stared down at Anti, handing him back the saucer so the Irishman could take a few small sips, giving him the barest relief in that regard. “The doctor said you were on death’s door when I called him in. Again, you’re lucky you still have your leg in general. Although he did say if you pulled through, you would probably carry a limp for the rest of your life…” A small, miserable noise escaped Anti as he weakly shifted and stared down towards his traitorous leg. The American decided not to pull any punches. “On top of the infection, you’re also recovering from pneumonia.” He paused. “He charged me for treatment. I don’t suppose you’d be able to reimburse me, would you?”

Anti stared at the man for a moment before his eyes rolled back up towards the ceiling, a harsh, broken chuckle of disbelief and defeat sounding out from his lips. The American pursed his lips, eyes narrowing into a hard, disdainful look.

“That’s what I figured,” he replied as he straightened, shoulder blades pulling back in the process and letting his head drop slightly to one shoulder, then the other in a quick attempt to loosen up his neck. “In that case, consider yourself officially in my service. I suspect you’ll be paying off your treatment until the day you die. Although I suppose if that upsets you, you can content yourself with the idea that you probably won’t be living that much longer anyway. Not at this rate, at least.” As his stare seemed to burn holes in the Irishman, he added with a sneer, “Even in that much, I suspect I’m _still_ doing you a favor.”

Anti shifted slightly, feeling uncomfortable as he felt his awareness slowly beginning to ebb away. Vaguely he could hear what sounded almost like a high-pitched tinning noise-which he wasn’t sure if it was in result of his sickness or his shock. The man leaned forward, pulling a rag from his forehead and checking the clammy skin underneath with his hand. As his thumb brushed the Irishman’s hairline, Anti ducked his head just a little bit, chin tucked toward his chest as his eyes slid shut and the deepest breath he could manage (not much) was sucked in sharply, the other man’s fingers gracing lightly back into his hair with the movement. When exhausted emerald orbs opened again and sleepily blinked, the American could see the question on his lips.

“My name is reserved for those I think deserve it. People who gained just a fraction of my _respect._ In the meantime though, you can refer to me as Dark,” he replied, moving to take the saucer again as he could see pale fingers loosening on the silver. The last thing the Irishman heard as he slid back into darkness was Dark’s voice, finally laced with something beyond just the sole condescension he’d carried up to this point. It was something different. It sounded possessive, it sounded almost... _smug._

“You belong to me now, Ashanti. Consider yourself **_mine_ ** **.** ”

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! NaNoWriMo has passed and now I can finally get around to posting things again! The newest chapter to Devil's Deal _Lost Memories_ is due to get a chapter up shortly-I'll actually elaborate on a couple other projects in relation to it once that's done! In the meantime, we're gonna start getting into some of the darker aspects of this story pretty soon, both historically and fictionally. Starting off historically is a mention of the Bachelor's Walk Massacre, where Irish nationalists attempted to purchase rifles from Hamburg and perform an armed march in reaction to Protestant Unionists in North Ireland doing similar without hindrance. While the Unionists received little resistance, the nationalists were stopped by British ruling authorities and demanded to hand over their weapons. The nationalists reacted by retreating-most with weapons in hand or hiding them along the way-but the point had been made, that there was definite differing treatment between the two parties. By the time a column of the King's Own Scottish Borderers made their march into Dublin, word had spread which whipped the people up in a frenzy. Civilians shouted their dismay while a few in the crowd started throwing things-in response, the Borderers turned on the crowd and fired on them. Four of the civilians were killed while at least thirty were injured. In this story, Ashanti was among the injured from this particular event. ...But so anyway, with that history bit out of the way! Again, this is looking to be a very dark fic that also have some very controversial points of Irish history-I will try and tag where needed, for triggers and otherwise. And on the history aspect, I'll try and be as unbiased as I can manage, but there are character perspectives to take into account. But in the meantime! As always, if you liked it, drop a kudo, drop a comment, and I might see you all in the next chapter. Until then!


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